Page 4 of The Perfect Illusion

Jessie tried not to take offense at the back-handed comment, giving Parker the benefit of the doubt that she hadn’t intended it that way.

“Who’s the detective?” she asked.

“The name is Brady Bowen,” Parker told her.

Now, it all made sense. Jessie knew Brady Bowen well. Not only was he Ryan’s old partner from years ago, but he was also the intended best man at their wedding, before that ceremony was interrupted by Jessie’s kidnapping.

Brady was a good guy and, in Jessie’s limited experience, a solid detective, even if he wasn’t the most personally disciplined person she’d ever met. Squat, with a barrel chest and an ample gut, he had a mustache that looked cribbed from a 1970s porn actor.

“Got it,” Jessie said, not commenting on any of those details to Captain Parker.

“He’s expecting you at the crime scene, which I’m about to text to you,” Parker said.

“Great,” Jessie said as traffic finally opened up a little in front of her. “I’m on my way.”

***

Jessie drove down the quiet Brentwood street, passing by multiple police cars, an ambulance, a crime scene unit truck, and a medical examiner’s van, before ultimately parking just down the street from the mansion.

She knew from painful personal experience that high profile cases generated media attention, and that when those news crews saw her at a crime scene, the feeding frenzy only escalated. As a result, she’d learned that parking well away from the scene, then approaching in a bit of a disguise, often served her—and the case—better.

She got out of the car, threw on a navy “crime scene unit” windbreaker over her top, and tucked her brown hair under her LAPD baseball cap before pulling the brim low on her face. This bit of concealment wouldn’t trick a veteran crime reporter who was actively on the lookout for her, but it might help her sneak past a less observant one.

She walked up the sidewalk, taking in the enormity of the home she was approaching. It was in the Spanish Revival style and comprised nearly a third of the neighborhood block. There were humble white stucco outer walls and low-pitched, red clay roof tiles. But unlike the standard cottage-style homes that typically employed this look, the home she was staring at looked like a cottage on steroids, about ten times the size of a normal house.

As she ducked under the police tape, Jessie took note that at least so far, there was only one news van here. The reporter, a blonde woman in her thirties, was on her cell phone facing the other direction. Her cameraman was leaning against the side of the van, taking a drag on his cigarette.

Jessie moved quickly to the front door, hoping to get inside before either of them took notice of her. A young officer with short black hair and a frown stood at the open front door, eyeing her cautiously as she pulled out her ID and showed it to him.

“That says you’re a criminal profiler,” he noted. “Why are you wearing a crime scene unit jacket?”

Jessie appreciated his observational skills but didn’t have time for them.

“Because when the press sees that I’m involved in a case, they tend to lose it a little bit,” she said quickly, “so I’m trying to avoid them noticing me. It’s the same reason I’m using the cap to cover my face. It’s also why I’d like to get inside before they start paying attention. I’m looking for Detective Bowen.”

“I got ya,” the officer said, seemingly satisfied. “He’s upstairs in the main bedroom. That’s where they found the victim.”

“Thanks,” she said, stepping past him into the house.

The interior of the place matched the outside, only with ornate additions like intricate iron decorations and multiple terracotta busts on marble pedestals. She made her way up the circular stairwell. At the top was another officer, who pointed right, down one end of a long hallway that appeared to extend the entire length of the house.

She could identify the room where the murder occurred because there was an additional officer station outside it. As she walked that way, she noticed that a section of the hardwood-floored hall had been cordoned off with tape about halfway to the bedroom. Inside the taped-off area were dozens of chunks of glass, apparently knocked out of the frame of a large painting hanging on the wall just above the spot. She moved carefully around it and continued on to the main bedroom door.

“I’m Jessie Hunt,” she told the officer stationed in front of it. “Detective Bowen is expecting me.”

The officer waved her in, and she stepped inside the bedroom. It was huge, double the size of an average living room, much less a bedroom. Blood covered huge swaths of the floor. She counted at least eight people in here, and even then, the place didn't feel crowded. That count didn't include the victim, who she could see out of the corner of her eye, lying on a divan near a giant window.

Jessie didn't typically like to look at a body until she'd had a chance to take in the rest of the scene. She'd found that sometimes, seeing the victim first made her jump to conclusions. But before she could take in much of the scene at all, a booming voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Jessie Hunt!” bellowed the familiar voice.

She followed the sound to find Detective Brady Bowen bounding toward her. He appeared just as he had the last time she'd seen him, about two months ago. His gray suit jacket looked two sizes too small for him and appeared in danger of ripping in half. His shirttails were poking out of his slacks, which looked about to burst at the seams. The knot of his tie, which seemed to have some kind of sauce stain on it, was already coming loose. And even though they were in an air-conditioned house in early May, sweat poured off his brow, making his unkempt blond hair stick to his forehead.

“Hey Brady,” she said with a smile just before he picked her up and gave her a bear hug that felt like a very friendly vise was squeezing the air out of her. When he put her down again, he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, which he subsequently wiped on his slacks.

“How’s it going?” he demanded eagerly, his bright blue eyes sparkling with warmth and enthusiasm. “And why the hell is Ryan working a different case than you? I was hoping to make this a complete reunion.”

Jessie was amazed at his ability to be so jocular with a murdered person lying less than twenty feet away. Of course, he’d been at this a lot longer than she had, but she doubted she’d ever reach his level of relaxation.

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